I found my heart in San Francisco
Mar. 24th, 2010 02:52 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
skyringCrossposted from Hogjowls.com
There are dozens of good songs about San Francisco. Haunting, evocative, meaningful golden hits. But there's not a one of them comes close to this one. Coupled with the beautiful dancing and the iconic backdrops of the video, this Australian's heart near breaks. I want to be back in San Francisco.
It's not just Tony Bennett who left his heart here. Mine as well, somewhere between Fishermans' Wharf and Fort Mason.
It was my first round the world trip. Fort Worth was my conference destination, but I wanted to combine it with a visit to London, where I would visit every location on the British Monopoly board. Trafalgar Square, Old Kent Road, Marylebone Street Station...
"You need to make a third stop on this ticket," my travel agent said, indicating a line on the brochure, "Minimum number of stopovers: three."
Quick. What other place after London and Fort Worth could I see on a round the world ticket? It was like a free holiday waved under my nose. Where did I want to go?
Well, everywhere. Flight Centre offices have a big map of the world on the wall. Actually, it is the wall. So many mouth-watering destinations!
The two flagship routes of Qantas Airways are the Kangaroo Hop from Sydney to London and the TransPacific Los Angeles to Sydney sector. I wanted to do both those legs. Any diversions would be inefficient, wasting time and adding distance. So somewhere in between London and Los Angeles, I had to pick a another city. I chose San Francisco almost at random, as being a minor diversion between Fort Worth and Los Angeles. I was quite certain I didn't want to do time in LA. I'd seen LA from the air a month earlier, and it looked horrible.
Besides, I'd been listening to songs about San Francisco for years. People crooning on about bridges and cable cars and love and flowers and smiles. Songs about Los Angeles were hard-edged and desperate.
It was a quick decision, and one of the best choices of my life.
It was a fantastic flight over mountains and deserts from Dallas Fort Worth. I was leaning way, way out of the window, taking in the incredible landscapes below. At one point we overflew Yosemite, the combination of green meadows and forest with the grey granite cliffs etched in my memory.
We descended over growing settlements, gliding in at last over the southern Bay, my seat on the port side of the MD-80 lacking any view of the city itself. A shuttle from the airport, talking with a fellow traveller from New Zealand, dropping off others at hotels in the central city and finally depositing me, the last aboard, at the Fort Mason youth hostel.
I checked in, gratefully stowed my luggage in a locker, and asked at the front desk for a place to have lunch and buy groceries. "There's a Safeway not far off," they said." Just go outside and follow the path west."
San Francisco has many markets. Neighbourhood festivals, the glorious Ferry Markt, the touristy mixed grill and candy store of Fishermans' Wharf. But for me there is only one that counts. The best supermarket in the world: the Marina Safeway.
An early scene in Armistead Maupin's classic Tales of the City
, documenting (or possibly establishing) the reputation of the place as a pick-up joint where dates are made over dates, links forged over the sausages, mangoes admired in the fruit department and the meat section is a hot joint.
The legend raises no doubts here. It's a remarkable place, the Marina Safeway, a place for dreams to come true, the happiest market of them all. Not too big and impersonal, but neither is it a hole in the wall place with limited stocks and choices. It's precisely the right size for a supermarket.
Funky curved facade, and the most stunning setting outside. Dinky little San Francisco houses, the Marina Green stretching up the hill to Fort Mason, full of people walking dogs, throwing frisbees. Fort Mason's historic wharves stretching out into the Bay, the Bay itself, and the great golden Bridge away off to the left, disappearing into the sunny hills of Marin.
Convertibles whip along Marina Boulevard outside, and there's a continuous stream of cyclists heading off over the bridge to Sausalito and back by ferry. It's a sunny outlook.
This was actually my first time inside a genuine American supermarket, as distinct from a drugstore. The fresh food section was worth a look - some odd names for familiar foods. Capsicums were called bell peppers here.
And the delicatessen section was selling lunches. You don't get that in Australia. Packaged snacks, lunch meats, salads in tubs and cooked chickens is as close as it comes, but here were counter staff making sub sandwiches. A sandwich, bag of chips, and soft drink for a bargain price.
I chose a sandwich with some sort of turkey salad, a bag of chips - yeah, I know they are called crisps in America - and a big paper cup of root beer. I adore root beer.
Nowhere to eat it in the store, of course. There are limits. Outside I wandered, vowing to return to buy some of those exotic American candies for my children back home in Canberra, and cast about for a seat. A park bench. Somewhere with a view, preferably.
I looked in vain all the way up the Fort Mason hill and down again. Great views, but no seats, unless I wanted to perch on the stone wall.
In the end, that's what I did. Just short of the great curving breakwater of Aquatic Park, I sat down on the seawall, not quite dangling my legs in the water, and I ate my lunch, gazing out with delight at Alcatraz afloat in the bay, the sun glancing off the water, the ferries churning their ways, the gulls swooping down for a hopeful glance at my meal, and the tourists passing by.
Not a memorable meal, foodwise. It was all good, but nothing I couldn't have had at home, apart from the rootbeer, which was slurped with deep satisfaction until the ice rattled forlornly in the bottom of the cup.
But the setting! I was in a sunny Californian heaven with the chance of sealions, which were swimming nearby. San Francisco in all its glory was around me. Architectural oddities, a sandy beach, swimmers taking their chances with the sealions, a group of Segway riders on a tour, the Bay Bridge stretching away beyond the as yet unsampled delights of Fishermans' Wharf.
Here I was, sitting on the dock of the bay, watching the ships roll in, at ease in the sun and salt air, chowing down on turkey and sauce in a soft bun and swigging the rootnectar of the gods. I liked California. This felt like a comfortable, friendly home.
A couple of Australian tourists paused to ask me for directions to the Golden Gate Bridge. They must have mistaken me for a local, but I pointed them up over Fort Mason and told them how far it was. "A fair hike around the bay, several kilometres, but it's all flat once you get over the hill."
"But I've only been here about half an hour, meself," I confessed.
We chatted about Australia and possible mutual acquaintances back home. They spotted the name "Skyring" on my travel journal and went through their lists of members of the Skyring family living in Canberra. "It's just a screen name," I said, and went on to tell them about BookCrossing.com. I may even have given them a book - there's usually one or two dozen somewhere within my easy reach!
In the days to come I looked around the northern tip of San Francisco, loving everything, every sight, ever person and every moment. The Palace of Fine Arts was a high point. I had expected a place of, well, fine arts, but it turned out to be the facade for some science museum aimed at schoolchildren. Never mind, because the dome and columned arcades edging a graceful lagoon with white swans and turkles under gum trees was such a peaceful, pleasant sight that I was totally charmed.
The cable cars winching up those impossibly steep hills - I had to sweat up and down a couple to make an evening meeting of local BookCrossers - the friendliness, the Anchor Steam beer, the views, the bookshops, the ships, wharves, ferries and quirky bay-windowed houses. It was all marvellous. It was America: jubilant, joyous, free and relaxed.
And, as I walked through Union Square on the way back - this time via Muni bus - I saw a sight that sums up San Francisco for me. Tony Bennett's heart, large enough for kids to climb on, painted with San Francisco icons, cheerful and happy. My own heart rests beside it.
–Skyring
View Larger Map
The song
There are dozens of good songs about San Francisco. Haunting, evocative, meaningful golden hits. But there's not a one of them comes close to this one. Coupled with the beautiful dancing and the iconic backdrops of the video, this Australian's heart near breaks. I want to be back in San Francisco.
The loveliness of Paris
Seems somehow sadly gay
The glory that was Rome
Is of another day
I've been terribly alone
And forgotten in Manhattan
I'm going home to my city by the bay.
I left my heart in San Francisco
High on a hill, it calls to me.
To be where little cable cars
Climb halfway to the stars!
The morning fog may chill the air
I don't care!
My love waits there in San Francisco
Above the blue and windy sea
When I come home to you, San Francisco,
Your golden sun will shine for me!
It's not just Tony Bennett who left his heart here. Mine as well, somewhere between Fishermans' Wharf and Fort Mason.
The rule of three
It was my first round the world trip. Fort Worth was my conference destination, but I wanted to combine it with a visit to London, where I would visit every location on the British Monopoly board. Trafalgar Square, Old Kent Road, Marylebone Street Station...
"You need to make a third stop on this ticket," my travel agent said, indicating a line on the brochure, "Minimum number of stopovers: three."
Quick. What other place after London and Fort Worth could I see on a round the world ticket? It was like a free holiday waved under my nose. Where did I want to go?
Well, everywhere. Flight Centre offices have a big map of the world on the wall. Actually, it is the wall. So many mouth-watering destinations!
The two flagship routes of Qantas Airways are the Kangaroo Hop from Sydney to London and the TransPacific Los Angeles to Sydney sector. I wanted to do both those legs. Any diversions would be inefficient, wasting time and adding distance. So somewhere in between London and Los Angeles, I had to pick a another city. I chose San Francisco almost at random, as being a minor diversion between Fort Worth and Los Angeles. I was quite certain I didn't want to do time in LA. I'd seen LA from the air a month earlier, and it looked horrible.
Besides, I'd been listening to songs about San Francisco for years. People crooning on about bridges and cable cars and love and flowers and smiles. Songs about Los Angeles were hard-edged and desperate.
It was a quick decision, and one of the best choices of my life.
Arrival
It was a fantastic flight over mountains and deserts from Dallas Fort Worth. I was leaning way, way out of the window, taking in the incredible landscapes below. At one point we overflew Yosemite, the combination of green meadows and forest with the grey granite cliffs etched in my memory.
We descended over growing settlements, gliding in at last over the southern Bay, my seat on the port side of the MD-80 lacking any view of the city itself. A shuttle from the airport, talking with a fellow traveller from New Zealand, dropping off others at hotels in the central city and finally depositing me, the last aboard, at the Fort Mason youth hostel.
I checked in, gratefully stowed my luggage in a locker, and asked at the front desk for a place to have lunch and buy groceries. "There's a Safeway not far off," they said." Just go outside and follow the path west."
The Market
San Francisco has many markets. Neighbourhood festivals, the glorious Ferry Markt, the touristy mixed grill and candy store of Fishermans' Wharf. But for me there is only one that counts. The best supermarket in the world: the Marina Safeway.
A dozen cardboard disks dangled from the ceiling of the Marina Safeway, coaxing the customers with a double-edged message: 'Since we're neighbors, let's be friends.'
And friends were being made.
As Mary Ann watched, a blond man in a Stanford sweatshirt sauntered up to a brunette in a denim halter. 'Uh... excuse me, but could you tell me whether it's better to use Saffola oil or Wesson oil?'
The girl giggled. 'For what?'
An early scene in Armistead Maupin's classic Tales of the City
, documenting (or possibly establishing) the reputation of the place as a pick-up joint where dates are made over dates, links forged over the sausages, mangoes admired in the fruit department and the meat section is a hot joint.The legend raises no doubts here. It's a remarkable place, the Marina Safeway, a place for dreams to come true, the happiest market of them all. Not too big and impersonal, but neither is it a hole in the wall place with limited stocks and choices. It's precisely the right size for a supermarket.
Funky curved facade, and the most stunning setting outside. Dinky little San Francisco houses, the Marina Green stretching up the hill to Fort Mason, full of people walking dogs, throwing frisbees. Fort Mason's historic wharves stretching out into the Bay, the Bay itself, and the great golden Bridge away off to the left, disappearing into the sunny hills of Marin.
Convertibles whip along Marina Boulevard outside, and there's a continuous stream of cyclists heading off over the bridge to Sausalito and back by ferry. It's a sunny outlook.
This was actually my first time inside a genuine American supermarket, as distinct from a drugstore. The fresh food section was worth a look - some odd names for familiar foods. Capsicums were called bell peppers here.
And the delicatessen section was selling lunches. You don't get that in Australia. Packaged snacks, lunch meats, salads in tubs and cooked chickens is as close as it comes, but here were counter staff making sub sandwiches. A sandwich, bag of chips, and soft drink for a bargain price.
The meal
I chose a sandwich with some sort of turkey salad, a bag of chips - yeah, I know they are called crisps in America - and a big paper cup of root beer. I adore root beer.
Nowhere to eat it in the store, of course. There are limits. Outside I wandered, vowing to return to buy some of those exotic American candies for my children back home in Canberra, and cast about for a seat. A park bench. Somewhere with a view, preferably.
I looked in vain all the way up the Fort Mason hill and down again. Great views, but no seats, unless I wanted to perch on the stone wall.
In the end, that's what I did. Just short of the great curving breakwater of Aquatic Park, I sat down on the seawall, not quite dangling my legs in the water, and I ate my lunch, gazing out with delight at Alcatraz afloat in the bay, the sun glancing off the water, the ferries churning their ways, the gulls swooping down for a hopeful glance at my meal, and the tourists passing by.
Not a memorable meal, foodwise. It was all good, but nothing I couldn't have had at home, apart from the rootbeer, which was slurped with deep satisfaction until the ice rattled forlornly in the bottom of the cup.
But the setting! I was in a sunny Californian heaven with the chance of sealions, which were swimming nearby. San Francisco in all its glory was around me. Architectural oddities, a sandy beach, swimmers taking their chances with the sealions, a group of Segway riders on a tour, the Bay Bridge stretching away beyond the as yet unsampled delights of Fishermans' Wharf.
Here I was, sitting on the dock of the bay, watching the ships roll in, at ease in the sun and salt air, chowing down on turkey and sauce in a soft bun and swigging the rootnectar of the gods. I liked California. This felt like a comfortable, friendly home.
A couple of Australian tourists paused to ask me for directions to the Golden Gate Bridge. They must have mistaken me for a local, but I pointed them up over Fort Mason and told them how far it was. "A fair hike around the bay, several kilometres, but it's all flat once you get over the hill."
"But I've only been here about half an hour, meself," I confessed.
We chatted about Australia and possible mutual acquaintances back home. They spotted the name "Skyring" on my travel journal and went through their lists of members of the Skyring family living in Canberra. "It's just a screen name," I said, and went on to tell them about BookCrossing.com. I may even have given them a book - there's usually one or two dozen somewhere within my easy reach!
The place
In the days to come I looked around the northern tip of San Francisco, loving everything, every sight, ever person and every moment. The Palace of Fine Arts was a high point. I had expected a place of, well, fine arts, but it turned out to be the facade for some science museum aimed at schoolchildren. Never mind, because the dome and columned arcades edging a graceful lagoon with white swans and turkles under gum trees was such a peaceful, pleasant sight that I was totally charmed.The cable cars winching up those impossibly steep hills - I had to sweat up and down a couple to make an evening meeting of local BookCrossers - the friendliness, the Anchor Steam beer, the views, the bookshops, the ships, wharves, ferries and quirky bay-windowed houses. It was all marvellous. It was America: jubilant, joyous, free and relaxed.
And, as I walked through Union Square on the way back - this time via Muni bus - I saw a sight that sums up San Francisco for me. Tony Bennett's heart, large enough for kids to climb on, painted with San Francisco icons, cheerful and happy. My own heart rests beside it.
–Skyring
View Larger Map
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no subject
Date: 2010-03-28 06:32 pm (UTC)UK: crisps
USA: potato chips
Fish-n-chips
USA/UK--fish n/and chips
Scotland: fish supper
Chips that are not crisps:
UK: chips
USA: french fries
Potato chips are eaten cold
Date: 2010-03-28 08:45 pm (UTC)Sometimes, when there's a chance of ambiguity, "hot chips' will be advertised or requested, but by and large everyone knows when they want a bag of chips rather than a bag of chips.